


Pianissimo

by nokabrenna



Category: Hush Hush Saga - Becca Fitzpatrick
Genre: F/M, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Street Racing, Why Did I Write This?, references to unhealthy relationships of various stripes, the author is having way too much fun with OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24458731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nokabrenna/pseuds/nokabrenna
Summary: There's got to be more to this than just Coldwater. Also, surely someone would have twigged to what the Black Hand is up to.Enter a new person in Coldwater who is determined to get to the bottom of a beloved friend's disappearance. And if it means taking out the Black Hand as well, so much the better.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), OFC/OMC, Patch Cipriano & OC, Patch Cipriano/Nora Grey, Scott Parnell & OC
Kudos: 1





	1. Hello Coldwater

**Author's Note:**

> So. A few things inspired this. I was rereading the Hush Hush Saga because there's a certain amount of angst that dovetails nicely with one of my original stories. And then—no longer being in 10th grade—I realized that I didn't much like the characters. Like, sometimes Nora needs cognitive recalibration to get her head out of her ass. And thirdly, /why/ is somewhere in small-town Maine the best place to hide a bunch of Fallen Angels?
> 
> Well. I can explore my characters in somewhere else than their universe, smack some sense into this world (hopefully), and maybe expand on the world. We'll see.
> 
> Also, due diligence: POV OFC has some majorly traumatic relationships (familial, romantic) in her past. I will try to keep this work as within the realm of late 00s/early 2010s YA as possible, but this theme will occasionally be alluded to. I will note which chapters contain this theme.

Of all the places I could have landed at after summer’s close, Coldwater, Maine, wasn’t on the list. I hadn’t even _been_ aware of it until this past winter, when my boyfriend decided to follow a lead up there. I would much rather have preferred to be spending my time in Portland, Oregon than Portland, Maine. But my parents and my oh-so ex-boyfriend had decided to vacation in Maine this summer, like the good East Coast blue-bloods they were, and so here I was. Of course, I should have suspected an ulterior motive on their part. My ex is a manipulative and evil piece of work, and sometimes, the parents are little better. 

I’m eighteen, and I’ve been pulled into a celestial war that most people don’t know of. That’s absolutely fantastic. For the majority of my life, I’ve been _normal_ . Yeah, right. I look like a normal teenaged girl—except for being a little bit too tall, which is probably a marker of how _not_ normal I am. I dye my hair a lot to something other than its natural pale blonde, which, given my wardrobe choices, probably marks me to other people as not normal. Turns out, my parents aren’t pureblood humans. My mom’s a descendant of some famous old English guy named Barnabus Underwood, and she claims that she’s related to some old French duke too. Her genealogy tells her so. She’s got the famous birthmark. (I’ve got it too, but in my case, people think it’s a scar.) My dad’s what you call a Nephil: half fallen angel, half human, way too tall and strong, and with a bad temper. He claims to have met Chauncey Langeais and Barnabus Underwood, and is a firm believer in their message. It has something to do with the fact that for two weeks every October, ever since I can remember, he goes away. (Might have something to do with the fact that I was likely conceived during that period, but they won’t say anything about that.) My ex-boyfriend isn’t all human either. He’s an asshole named Aaron Forst, and _he_ happens to be Nephilim too. He’s also in Coldwater, unfortunately, and I think he has something to do with the disappearance of my current boyfriend, Luc. Luc’s not human either.

I call Luc my boyfriend, even if we haven’t done much more than share the occasional kiss or two, but he’s had my back for a long time. He was in Coldwater, doing some digging on some rumors he’d heard considering an uprising and new technology, and he went missing here. I’m pretty sure something big is going down, because my parents have somewhat permanently moved to Maine since I graduated in May. I’ve been trying to remain on the other side of the country from them and from the evil ex. Except Luc went missing around mid-June, and it’s now late August. The rumblings he told me of are getting louder, and I’m getting worried.

* * *

However, worry doesn’t mean I can’t be productive about some things. I pop the collar of my pinstripe white shirt above my grey vest, and regard myself in the mirror. Pretty good, for a waitress in a hip little bistro. One of their waitresses went missing shortly after my boyfriend did, and I’ve taken her place at the shop. I swipe another coat of Clinique Vintage Wine over my lips, and do my best to smile at my reflection. I’ve toned down the makeup a lot since going undercover here, but it’s still more than either my parents or Aaron (Aaron especially) like. My eye shadow’s less dramatic than I like, but I’m wearing my glasses most of the time now. I run a hand through my hair, trying to get it into a wind-tousled look, and grab my keys. Time to start my morning shift.

Enzo’s coffee is a nice little shop off of main drag that’s a hot spot for a lot of kids. It’s a pretty typical thing, except for when I was in school, we all went to Starbucks. Excluding those times when Evelin and myself went to a little hole-in-the wall for our caffeine fix. I park my old VW Rabbit (bless Nea) in the back, and let myself in.

“Morning, Maggie,” the chef, Emilio, says.

“Mornin’, Emilio,” I reply. “How are you?”

“Doing fine, Maggie, doing fine.”

“Busy yet?”

“Soon. So get out there, _chica_.”

I smile. “I’m on my way.” I grab my pad of paper and pencil, and stick the pad in my pocket and the pencil behind my ear. I adjust my vest, and go out to join the baristas behind the counter. I work as a cashier when I’m not waitressing. There aren’t many customers yet, but Roberta flicks on the light and unlocks the door. They’ll be coming any minute now. We get our share of middle-aged folk heading to their jobs either locally or in Portland, and they tend to precede some of the teenagers. I smile at the regulars and ring up their orders. After the first wave, the teenagers come in. Sometimes, they’re better than their parents, sometimes not. Marcie falls into the latter category. She’s stick-skinny, with a tendency to wear the Coldwater High colors, and clothing that would be _just_ barely dress-code legal once school starts. That doesn’t bug me as much as her sense of self-importance. It’s like someone took all the pastiches of the bitchy cheerleader queen with need to be the correct weight and a lax attitude to STIs and made a person out of them.

“Hey, you listening?” she asks, snapping her gum impatiently.

I raise my eyebrows and look her dead in the eye. I’m a fair bit taller, so it should have some impact—yeah, didn’t think so. Marcie doesn’t seem cowed at all. Looks like she took some pointers from some of the princesses I used to go to school with out near Queens. “Excuse me. I thought you were taking some time to come up with your order. What would you like?”

She scoffs. “Wow. Rude. I should talk to your manager.”

I poise my fingers over the keys and put on my best “I’m listening” face.

"Venti frappuccino, two shots, soy, no whip.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“That’ll be ten-seventy-five. For?”

“Marcie, M-A-R-C- _I_ -E, don’t try that M-A-R-C- _Y_ stuff,” she replies, sliding her card through the credit card reader.

“An innocent mistake,” I murmur. Must have been a subconscious wish for her to maybe mellow out. I quickly finish her transaction, set the cup aside for the baristas, and let the next customer in line come up to the counter. Towards the end of the line, I see a tall blonde head. I smile a bit. If I want to know some gossip, that’s just the girl. She’s chatting on the phone, and eyeing the various guys in the room. Some of them are eyeing her right back. If I had to pick between Vee Sky and Marcie Millar, I’d bet that Vee’s got the staying power. Sure, she’s not supermodel-slim like Marcie, but she’s got curves for days and a generally pleasant face. Marcie just looks pinched, and I’m sure the clothes are a desperate cry for attention.

Vee comes up to the counter, and I’ve got my best smile on. “Good morning, welcome to Enzo’s, what can I do for you today?” I ask.

“Ooh, can I have a medium latte please? With a shot of espresso? And one—no, make that _two_ jelly donuts. For here.”

“Coming right up,” I say, marking the coffee cup. “Name please?”

“Vee.”

“Cool. nine-fifty, please.” I grab her two donuts from the case. She forks over a ten, and I give her her change and the donuts. “Thank you very much.”

There’s a scream from the other end of the counter. Marcie’s gotten her drink, and she’s not happy. “You idiots! You spelled my name wrong! How dare—!” Her friends drag her out. Vee raises her eyebrows. “You took her order, right?”

I shrug.

“What was her name spelled as?”

“M-A-double S-I-E. It’s loud in here, and I’m new.”

Vee smiles. “I like. Thanks, have a good day!”

“You too.”

The rest of the shift goes pretty smoothly. No one has any major freak-outs, and I don’t see any more Nephilim. I took this job because it looked like a large segment of the local young population hangs out here, and if there’s one thing I know about Nephilim, is that they look freakishly younger than they actually are. But at least I haven’t seen Aaron lately, so that’s good. I drive past Delphic, and pause. Might as well walk on the pier while it’s still summer and call Evelin. It’s noon her time, and I might be able to get her. I dial and raise my phone to my ear. “Hey,” I say. “It’s Elle.”

“Elle!” she exclaims. “How are you? How’s Maine? Cold yet?”

I laugh. “Good to hear you too, Ev. I’m fine, just got off of my shift at the coffee shop—I told you about that, right? Yeah, staying busy. Got to look productive ‘cause I deferred enrollment a year. Maine’s alright so far. Haven’t seen any familiar faces. And hey, it’s still August! It’s still summer! How’ve you been?”

“You know how cold I get. Same as you, staying busy. Glad Mom was able to nab this apprenticeship for me. I’m learning _tons_ . Makes me happy I _also_ did the deferred enrollment thing. I am so _over_ classrooms.”

“You didn’t have the parental pressure _I_ did.”

“Nah, Mom wanted me to stick by you. As long as I get my bachelor’s, she’s not too cranky.”

“That’s good.”

“So! Tell me, have you found Luci yet?”

“His name’s not Luci,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “And no, I have not. Barely even found anyone who knows much of anything.”

“Have you seen Dickwad?”

I snort. “I’ve been trying to avoid Dickwad. But if I can’t find a trail in the next two weeks, I might have to go in deep cover and deal with Dickwad.”

“Or you could—nah. Less time you spend with Dickwad, the better.”

“I agree. I just want to track down the guy Luc was talking with before he left.” 

“Well, good luck. I know he’s a secretive bastard, and I’m sure the guy he was talking with is too.”

“Thanks.” I cast a glance over the pier. “Well, I’m at one of the locations he liked to hang out at, so hopefully I’ll see someone who knows something.” My eyes rest on one abnormally tall guy with good muscles and a baseball cap jammed on his head. “And I might have spotted one of them.”

“Great, because I’m about to get off lunch.”

“Talk this evening about your shift?”

“Hell yeah, girl! Talk to you then!”

We air-kiss, and hang up.


	2. At the Pier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Scott

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Telepathy appears here! Format used for telepathy here is -italicized thought-. Regular thoughts are in italics.
> 
> Due diligence: bashing of controlling ex.

I’ve been spending a lot of time at the Delphic since I moved to Coldwater in early July. For better or worse, the parents (and evil ex Aaron) have told me to stay away, “it’s not your scene, Carmel.” But this seems like Luc’s type of place, and I’ve seen this sign before in one of his memory-dreams. Hopefully, someone here knows something. And I think Mr. Tall Muscles, who’s doing his darndest to lurk near the burger joint fits the bill. I start walking over to him, doing my best to analyze the situation. He’s freakishly tall (but I’m kind of tall too, so that’s a moot point), and well muscled, which means he’s probably Nephilim. Fallen angels don’t have that kind of height, and they give off a totally different vibe. He’s also trying to seem inconspicuous, and it’s not working. He’s young then. The older ones tend to be better at hiding, unless they’re unrepentant jerks like Evil Ex. A Nephil isn’t the top of my list, but this is the first good contact I’ve made in nearly two months. I’d prefer to shake down the Fallen, because that’s who Luc’d associate with, but this late in the game, I’ll go with what I can get.

The Nephil looks scrawny, like he hasn’t quite been getting enough to eat. _Probably why he’s lurking near the burger shack, and is that—? Yeah. It is._ He’s got Tupperware. Oh boy. I try my dangdest to stick on my brightest, ditziest smile, but I’m sure it’s not going to come out as sweet as I’m hoping for. “Hi! I wasn’t sure we’d be meeting here! It’s my turn to treat, isn’t it?”

“What the fu—” he blurts.

- _Play along,_ \- I say to his mind. - _I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to ask some questions. And I’ll buy you dinner_ -

- _I don’t fucking trust you who do you work for?_ \- he replies. And _yikes_ , but his broadcast is staticky. Like when you’re just in range of a radio station, but not quite at the correct frequency.

- _Myself. Look, you want food or not? You look like you need it, and I need to ask some questions. Nothing personal._ -

- _Why the fuck do you need to ask questions. Do you work with HIM? I got out of that shit, don’t wanna go back._ \- This time, his broadcast is accompanied by flashes of a black ring, a weird blob rising up off of it like a normal stone would be. I know that ring. Both my ex and my dad have one, and my mother does too these days.

- _NO. It’s just dinner, we’ll do it here, then go our separate ways. Deal?_ -

He looks unsure for a bit, then he nods. Thank Heaven. “Hi, babe,” he says unsteadily.

“Sorry I surprised you, honey! I wasn’t sure you’d make it! What are you hungry for?” I chirp.

He looks at me weirdly. “Cheeseburger.”

“Same! I’ll get three, okay?”

“Okay.”

I smile at him. “Just wait right here.” I’m sure he will. I don’t think _anybody_ my age is willing to pass up free food, and he looks like he needs it. The line’s blessedly short for this time in the afternoon, and it doesn’t take long for the girl in the burger shack to get together three cheeseburgers and two Cokes. I pay with what remains of last week’s tips, and juggle the food back to the boy under the awning.

“Cheeseburgers coming right up!” I say, still keeping a stupid goofy grin on my face. “And a Coke for you too.” I hand him a drink and two foil-wrapped packages.

“Wow. Uh, thanks. Didn’t think you’d—I mean, juggling things? You didn’t have to ‘s all I’m sayin’.” 

I shrug. “I’ve been working as a waitress. And well—” I make sure my food and drink are secure and flex and extend one hand. “I can palm it.”

He just blinks and nods at me. Like yeah, right, Elle, you totally _do_ have big hands. They just look like spiders. Or at least, Evelin would say that whilst wearing that expression.

“Shall we go over there?” I point to under the pier. The tide’s still out, so it should be dry, if a bit smelly. “It’s quieter.” I waggle my eyebrows at that, a move I’ve picked up from Luc. - _No one will see us, we’ll have a decent sight line, and no one will want to try and eavesdrop on us_ -

“Sure, babe.”

“Alright, cool!” I set off, trying to put an extra sway in my step, and cursing the fact that I’m wearing capris. Some people look sexy in them, but I’m not one. But hey, the Nephil follows, and that’s all I really care about. I find a dry place in the shade, wedge my drink between my feet, and wait for him to make himself comfortable. It takes a bit, and I use the time to study him. He’s flipped his hat around, and he’s got close-cropped brown hair. His eyes are kind—stressed, but kind. There’s a nasty brand just hidden by his collar, and a few tattoos peeking out from beneath his short sleeves. He’s also got what look like diamond studs in his ears. Cute, but not my type.

“So,” he says tiredly. “Who are you and what do you want.”

I smile briefly. “Call me Maggie. I’m actually here looking for my boyfriend. Don’t know if you know him, so I thought I’d ask. He had some, ah, interests in this area.”

“Oh?” - _You’d better not be one of them. Don’t think they recruit many chicks, don’t think she is one, can’t be too sure. Unless she’s Fallen._ -

“There was some technology that a, ah, I don’t know what you’d call it. It’s not a business. _Association_ , maybe? _Society? Fraternity_ ? Anyways, secret group of people with fingers in many pots and a _really_ unique worldview. I don’t quite want to call them a cult, but it’s probably pretty close for any normal person’s point of view. My boyfriend was out here doing some looking into whatever technology this group was developing because he’d heard rumors of what they were doing out here and it’s _hella_ illegal. Like, go to jail in flames kinda illegal.” I tilt my head considering. “And they were planning a revolt or coup of sorts. That wasn’t really my boyfriend’s problem.”

“The Black Hand,” the Nephil whispers. He looks at me in some form of bewilderment. - _Wh_ _at the—or who the_. _You’re not really human, are you?_ -

- _No,_ \- I reply with as much humor as I can. - _I’m not. I’m Nephilim. My boyfriend’s a fallen angel._ \- “That’s them. He doesn’t like ‘em, I don’t like them much either. But that’s not really my point. Anyways, he was trying to get close enough to investigate the technology and start doing some whistle blowing when he disappeared. I’ve been trying to follow his trail for months, and most of the people I want to talk to are hard to find.”

He laughs at that.

I laugh with him. “Yeah, joke’s on us. Whodathunk the secret society took their secrecy seriously? I haven’t seen anyone who might be affiliated with them out in public. Well, except a guy I’m sure is the head honcho, but I don’t want to approach him. He’d probably get right to torturing my boyfriend.” I take a bite of my burger. “He was getting close, and then he went dark. I’m worried because I haven’t heard from him in months.” I exhale. Here’s the big one. “I was wondering if you’ve ever heard of a guy around here going by Jack Springhill. He went missing around the Solstice.”

“Sorry, Jack _Sprinkle?_ ”

“No, Jack _Springhill_. Spring plus hill. About six-three, blue eyes, dark hair?”

“Never heard of him. And while I _do_ know of a guy of maybe about that description who went missing around that time, his name was Rixon.”

“Did he tend to wear necklaces?”

“Rixon? Nah. ‘Course, I didn’t like looking at the guy ‘cause he was a crazy psycho. About as bad as this bastard Patch.”

I pause, thinking. _Patch._ That name does sound familiar. And so does _Rixon_. But I don’t think either of them’s Luc. 

“Look, babe, if you’re looking for your boy, all I’ve gotta say is that it sounds like he was mixed up in trouble. If I were you, I’d stay out of it. They’re all scary psycho bastards.”

I sigh. “I _know_ . Been there, done that, no thank you _please_.”

“So then why?”

“Because Jack’s been a friend to me for a long time. Got me out of some tight situations. Seems it’s only fair I do the same for him.”

- _But he’s_ Fallen _. You’re_ Nephil _. It’s a bad combination._ -

- _Yeah, and? He hasn’t demanded I do an oath and treats me a damn sight better than my ex._ -

- _You’re dating?_ -

- _Well, no. Helped me get out of that relationship, then these rumors started popping up, and off he went. But he’s one of_ my _people._ -

He rolls his eyes and leans back. “Jesus _Christ_ ,” he whispers with feeling.

“You have people you consider _yours_ too, I’m sure,” I say, sucking on my straw. “I’m sure you’d willingly walk into danger and through Hell for them.”

“Yeah, but fallen angels?”

I shrug.

“Jesus _Christ_.” He sits there, silent, absentmindedly eating his second burger. He’s got less than a quarter left. He finishes it and sips his Coke. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Deadly so.”

“Jesus _Christ._ ” He sits up abruptly and looks me dead in the eye. “Listen, Maggie, right?” I nod. “Look. Imma give you the same advice I’d give my own sister. Looking for this guy, this Jack Springhill, is a _bad_ idea. _Everyone_ , and I mean _everyone_ you’re looking at is a crazy, psychotic, scary bastard. I’m dead serious. So I’d suggest stopping looking.”

I raise my eyebrow and wait.

“But, since you’re dead set on looking for your guy, I’ll give you a place to look. The amusement park. There’s a lot of people that fit your bill that wander through there. Look for a guy about six-two, black hair and eyes, maybe Italian, and looks like trouble wearing a ball cap. I don’t know much anyone else, but maybe you and he can work together on that. Just to warn you though, he’s a _scary_ sonofabitch. And I don’t use that term lightly.”

“Duly noted.” I get up, brushing sand off.

“And Maggie—?”

“Never saw you,” I said. “Besides, how could I know who you are if I don’t know your name?” I step out from under the pier opposite the way I went in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ed. Jul 5. 2020 for format and to keep it genre-appropriate (little to no swearing).


	3. Bloody Mary's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our intrepid heroine decides to go clubbing to find information (as one does in fiction), fallen angels are sighted, and we begin to learn of our heroine's backstory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due diligence: being yanked off a dance floor by someone bigger than our heroine. And highly questionable conduct by various fallen angels.
> 
> Gabe-the-fallen-angel is NOT mine, he originally appears in Crescendo by Becca Fitzpatrick.

Dinner’s a frozen burrito and milk. That’s okay. I was planning to spend some of my fun allowance at Bloody Mary’s. No idea who named it, but it couldn’t have been more of a gothic cliche if they tried. But hey, when you’re in a small town, why not make it really apparent that this is the only goth club for MILES around? Or maybe, the rumors I’ve heard are true, and the fallen angels who frequent it are the reason why most everyone above thirty tries to avoid it. More than likely it has something to do with the fact that it’s _goths_ in a _warehouse_ in small town ‘Merica. But at about seven on a late August Friday night, the place is lit up like Coney Island.

There’s a small crowd to get in, but then again, school hasn’t started yet and summer’s ending. I’ve popped my contacts in and done up my eyes enough that I’m walking the fine line between the classic smokey eye and utter Bat Cave reject. I’ve exchanged the pinstripes for a spaghetti strap tank and leather pants, and I’ve got some practical granny boots on my feet. (Mother had a gardening phase at one point before she decided that having luncheons at the botanic gardens was the thing to _do_.) I’ve slicked my berry colored hair back with the application of a few bobby pins and some gel, which highlights my earrings. Those have long, glossy primary feathers dangling off them, which hopefully will draw attention to my necklaces. Which is the entire goal of the outfit. It might be stupid, but Cheshvan’s nearly a month away, and I’m running out of time.

The nice girl at the door takes my money and stamps my hand. She briefly glares at me. I give my winningest smile. _Hopefully I didn’t go too far in the direction of baby bat,_ I briefly think. She waves me through.

I hit the dance floor first, which turns out to be a total bust. No prickles on the back of my neck, no sense of storm fronts moving in, and no vague spice running across my tongue. There isn’t even much of anything pointing to Nephil—but from all I’ve been able to discover in my nearly two months here is that Nephil would rather not be here if possible. Which could make some of my plan more difficult. Oh well. 

After about an hour or two, I give up and head to the bar. I need something to drink anyways, and I can still observe the dance floor. It’d be nice if I could bring my camera out and do some portraiture. Texture from spikes and hair, nice contrast between pale skin and dark clothes, bright light in a dark room: it would be quite modern. I sip on my Arnold Palmer and regard the space. Yeah. No fallen angels, but this is the closest I’ve been to home in _weeks_ , and the Delphic’s been a bit of a bust so far. Oh well, this will still be open once Cheshvan hits and Delphic won’t be. I finish my drink and hop back onto the floor. They’re playing some old Cure, which is passable. At least it’s a break from some of the incessant EDM. I jump and weave with the locals, getting lost in the rhythm. It’s becoming a pleasant evening, even if I haven’t found anyone yet. Which is when I feel hands grab me, and the feeling of a thunderstorm approaching making the back of my neck tickle. _Fallen. Crap. But I was hoping for this, right? Crap._

It takes effort not to panic and to go along with the guy who’s yanking me into a dark hallway. I remember that I’ve got a penknife tucked in a pocket, and I can at least manage to self extract for a bit before I go for the wing scars. I sink down into the waters of my mind, going carefully blank while I throw up every defense I have. I hope it’s good enough to stick when I’m tossed into the center of a circle of about five fallen angels. _Right. Keep calm, and keep an eye out for the one they call Patch. Tall, black haired and black eyed, and looks like a mercenary._ Well, he doesn’t look to be here right now. Just my luck.

“Look who _I_ caught snooping!” my kidnapper says to the group. “A runty little Nephil!”

“Is it really worth it, Gabe?”

“I’d say it is, Esther. She’s been snooping around for weeks!” He’s still holding me like he wants to frog-march me around some more. Which, hey, I have been snooping, but I’ve not been to Bloody Mary’s every weekend. I’ve spent some of them at the Delphic too. That probably counts though. Luc’s got enough borderline paranoia that I feel I can make some generalizations.

“Well, then, why’d you bring her here?” another Fallen asks. “Gabe, you’ve got to know that bringing them in like this is a bad idea.”

“Just force her to swear fealty already,” the other woman in the room, Esther, says. “Have it over and done with, and send her on her way. She looks to be of age.”

Gabe leers at me, and I don’t care what all the books say, but being preternatural is _not_ a replacement for good dental care. “Well then, how ‘bout that? I think that sounds good.”

A spark. “I’d disagree,” I say. I do my damndest to twist away so he’s not _grabbing me_ , but I’m not too interested in causing a scene. I need to find this “Patch” and then maybe, hopefully, I can find Luc too.

“ _You_ disagree,” he says, and his face twists.

 _Burning burning burning, smoke in my lungs, fire nipping my flesh. Can’t escape, but the blond with the brown eyes looks so nice._ \- _I have cold water_ -, he seems to say. - _I can put out the fire. All you have to do is swear fealty_ -

I shudder as I inhale. _Blue eyes, like the apex of the heavens. Golden roots peeking from beneath inky black waves. Tan skin, freckles. A smile like a knife’s edge, promising all sorts of trouble. “I’ll take care of you, promise.” Blood down my wrist. “I won’t let you down, ever. This I swear under Heaven, to you, Carmel Magdalene Blakely.”_

And I replied that I’d honor that promise. That I’d trust him. I exhale, ignoring how much my lungs feel like they’re charring within me. I inhale, imagining the air cool and clean, extinguishing the fire. Deep in my mind, I start to swell. And with the turn of breath accompanying my exhale, I blast Gabe out of my head. He staggers back. “I do disagree. Already did my oath of fealty, thanks,” I say. _If only under a night sky with Nea and Ev looking on._

“Then why—?”

“Take me to your leader.”

“Why should we trust you?”

“Take me to your leader, and I’ll explain everything.”

“Yeah, right,” Esther says. “Like we’d trust a Nephil. Who the fuck are you anyways?”

I remain silent.

“Right then,” Gabe says. “Time for some answers.” He moves towards me, and someone emerges from the tunnels. He’s tall, dark haired and dark eyed, and he somehow reminds me of a pirate.

“Time for some what, Gabe?” he asks calmly. “Doesn’t seem like we need to start pulling people from the club if we don’t like them.”

“She’s a _Nephil_ ,” a male fallen angel spits. “Look at her, Jev.”

He looks me over. _Dark hair, dark eyes, tall, tanned, looks like trouble, said the boy on the beach. Dark hair, dark eyes, pirate’s smile in a tanned face. Could it be?_ “I see. Petite for a Nephil, if she is one.”

“She just pushed me out of her mind! Try to get in!”

The newcomer’s eyes pass over me, and I feel something gently prying and teasing at the fringes of my mind. I submerge myself, hiding all my thoughts. I hate it, but—he’s gone. I relax. He frowns. There are the tendrils again. I slam down mental walls made of lava. He regards me consideringly.

I smile.

“Then there’s also the matter of her necklace.” Esther says. “A Nephil should not be wearing a necklace like that.”

“That’s _why_ I said to take me to your leader,” I replied.

“She could be a spy for the Black Hand!”

“The Black Hand prefers to use males,” the newcomer and I say together laconically.

“Which is why a female would be a perfect decoy!” Esther screeches.

I turn out my pockets. “No weapons here.”

“What about your earrings?” Gabe asks.

“Raven feathers. Look. All I want to do is talk to your leader. Maybe even in private. I come in peace. Search my mind if you want.”

“How come we can be sure you won’t trick us?” Esther asks.

“Scout’s honor,” I say. “Or I can do a blood oath if it makes you more comfortable.”

The newcomer looks at the gathered fallen angels. “Were you able to get anything from her?”

Gabe shakes his head.

The newcomer looks me over again, black eyes piercing. They catch on my necklaces. I’ve proven I can defend myself from mind-tricks, but I’m still Nephilim, and that comes with certain weaknesses. Then again, I’m Nephilim, and if what I’ve heard rumbling around here is correct, then I’m not trustworthy _because_ of my last name. My real one. The newcomer looks at me consideringly. “We’ll do a blood oath.”

“Very well.” I flip out my penknife. “Terms?”

His eyes widen fractionally at my blade, and Gabe seems embarrassed. “That you’ll tell the truth of why you’re here and why you have that necklace.”

“And if you don’t, you’ll die! Painfully!” Gabe says.

“Who am I swearing to?” I ask, placing the knife at the base of my palm.

“Jev,” the pirate says.

I slash down sharply. “I swear beneath Heaven to you, Jev, that I shall tell the purpose of why I am here and why I am wearing the necklace that I am to you and no one but you, else I forfeit my shadow.” My blood falls to the dust below.

Gabe screeches. “She didn’t say she’d die, she can lie—!”

“ 'Forfeiting my shadow?' ” I say again.

Esther sighs. “Gabe, you’re an idiot. She just said it vaguely. We’ll figure out how to deal with her later if Jev thinks she’s lying.”

“Take him out,” Jev-the-pirate says. “She said she’d speak to me only.”

Esther glares, but grabs Gabe by the collar and hauls him out. The other Fallen follow, until there is no one in the room but me and Jev. He looks at me consideringly. I smile sheepishly back.

“So. Why do my friends think that you’re snooping around and a threat?”

“That’s a bit sudden,” I bluster. “But fair enough to ask. I was looking for someone—well, two someones—and I found him. Haven’t found the other yet, but I was hoping you could help.”

“And why are you wearing an archangel’s necklace?” He gestures to my neck.

“Well, that’s related to why I’m here, kinda.” I ease into a cross-legged sitting position, “Might as well sit yourself. It’s kinda a long story.”

Jev remains standing. I’ve put my pen knife away, and am idly messing with one of my necklaces. This is why it’s sometimes good to bring a purse to the club—it can hold all your accessories. Which Gabe confiscated of course. I sigh. “I guess, to start, I’m here in Coldwater looking for my boyfriend. He went missing shortly before the Solstice, and I’m worried about him. He gave me this necklace,” I say. I raise the archangel’s silver chain from the several silvery loops around my neck. “I haven’t been able to find him yet, so I thought I’d go to you. See if any of you have heard of him. It’s probably stupid, and I should be investigating the _other_ players in town, but that freaks me out, so I haven’t.”

Jev’s arms are crossed, and he impatiently taps a finger on his bicep. “That’s not everything.”

“No. It’s not. It’s the summary.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t explain how _you_ or your _boyfriend_ got their hands on an archangel’s necklace. They aren’t given away easily.”

“I know. Some of it I can tell you, some of it I can show you, if you’d like.”

“I’d prefer to hear what you have to say first.”

“‘Kay. Well, I'm called Maggie, and I’m here looking for a Fallen called Jack Springhill. If he wants to blend in with humans, which he kind of did. I swore oaths years ago, and he’s kinda my boyfriend.” I paused and tilted my head, considering. “Well. The oath swearing didn’t lead to him becoming my boyfriend, and I haven’t told him he is, but I suppose that’ll do. Uhm—can I tell you all this in complete secrecy?”

“Why?”

“I’m going to go back to the beginning, I think. And—there’s some stuff I _don’t_ want fallen angels to know about me. But on the other hand, it can probably explain this whole mess, so—”

“I give you my word,” Jev said, leaning back. “So. Maggie, what’s this story of yours?”

“Are you going to swear an oath or—?”

“I’ll swear an oath after the telling is done.”

“Okay then. Well, here goes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urgh. Not entirely happy with the writing, but it's moving the plot around.


	4. A Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine explains why she's in Coldwater (again and in detail) and gives her backstory. An arrangement is made.
> 
> Dialogue /Heavy/. Like, it's pretty much all dialogue and exposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual due diligence: References to fallen angels doing non-con possession, Nephilim being sadistic and torturing, but nothing beyond established Hush, Hush canon.

“Uhm.” I clear my throat. “Well, my name’s not Maggie _per se._ It’s Carmel Magdalene Blakely. Mother’s rather Catholic, _and_ she’s related to one Barnabus Underwood—which she’ll gladly tell you about once you bring it up.”

“Which could make you rather precious to that Nephil.”

“Er, yeah. I guess. But I’m not the Black Hand’s daughter. And Father likes to tinker with stuff rather than outright cause problems. Anyways. I met Jack Springhill when I was fourteen. Yes, I was young, no, that’s not his real name. He’s been going by Luc for a long time. He was using Springhill here. Uhm, I was a rather _angsty_ tween, and for whatever reason, he liked me and found me amusing. Decided to get me out of a tight spot at a club I really shouldn’t have gone to with some upperclassmen. Skip forwards two years, I’m still angst-ridden, and doing non-productive things about it, and Luc decides to try and help me out. I mean, he’s not _human_ , nor is he a _psychiatrist_ , but it helped? He swore an oath that he’d look after me. Which was kinda useful given later events.

“My parents are kinda medieval in some regards. I have no idea how old Father _really_ is, and Mother’s all about the Company. Which could be my dad’s regular business stuff or what he’s been doing for Hank Millar. She thinks strong social alliances will help out the Company—and she’s often not wrong. I ended up dating this Lieutenant in the Black Hand’s army who was—and likely still is—security detail for Father. He’s Nephil, which Father likes, and he’s got upwards mobility, which Mother likes. It wasn’t the best relationship. I learned a lot about the inner workings of the Nephilim resistance, which I told to Luc—he’s a fallen angel. Luc helped me get out of the relationship.

“By then, he’d heard enough concerning details that he thought warranted a closer look. My dad doesn’t really do a lot of his Nephil work in the City, and he travels to Maine a lot. As does the Ex. I told Luc where they were traveling, and he came here. He was really concerned about the use of devilcraft, and even though he’s Fallen and borderline Public Enemy Number One to the archangels, Luc wanted to put a stop to devilcraft. He wasn’t successful.

“I had a dream one night. Luc was scared. He explained what he had been doing, and gave me his necklace. He had been found out and—well. Have you heard the stories where the evil sorcerer keeps his heart in a box far away from him and hopes that no one finds it? Luc’s a bit more reckless than that. After that, all communication went dark. I haven’t been able to find him, and I’m really worried.

“I came here to Maine to try to look for him, and I was wondering if he’d joined up with the locals here. I mean, you all know about each other’s little issues with flames and certain objects.”

“You think one of us might have offed him?” Jev says. There’s a barest hint of humor behind it.

“I can’t think of a reason why any of you all might have wanted to do that. I mean, the Black Hand’s promising revolution and a freeing from the yoke. Conquerors don’t like it when their underlings try to overthrow them. And yeah, I don’t blame the Nephilim for wanting to do that.”

“And yet here you are, parlaying with their enemies. And _you’re_ Nephil yourself, Carmel.”

I shrug. I am, that’s true. Probably another reason for my parents—well, more my mother and the evil ex—to... _Let’s not think about that, shall we?_ “There’s revolt and then there’s revolt. Depends on who all is in charge and who all is following the leader. And then personality gets into things as well: what the motivation is, what you’d like to see happen, all sorts of stuff. You’d know some of it, since you’re Fallen. You rebelled against the guys up top.”

“What does that have to do with this?”

“What power are the first Fallen supposed to have found to fight back against the heavenly Host? Luc really doesn’t like the stuff—he wanted to piss off the big guys, but not _that_ badly. He’s been paying for it in different ways for _millenia_. And in the wrong hands...”

“Absolute power corrupts absolutely?”

“Yeah. Like _no one’s_ supposed to even _touch_ that stuff. And I get it, Nephilim who have been coerced into becoming vassals get mind-raped for two weeks each year so some touch-starved cosmic beings stuffed into meat suits can _feel_ things. I don’t think _you’d_ like it if you were on the receiving end of it yourself.”

Jev’s face darkens. “I’d be careful what you say.”

I shrug and swallow down my fear. “I can’t be the only person you’ve known who’s made that observation.”

“You’re not. So, why are you here? Seems you can best find your soft boyfriend by looking at the Nephilim.”

“It’s...” I pause, and swallow convulsively. _Damn. Did not want to have to do this._ “You know how I said my last name was Blakely, right? And how my dad likes to tinker with stuff? The security detail, all that happy stuff?”

“Yes.”

“I’m related to the Nephilim Army’s scientist. I’m his daughter. Met the Black Hand in passing, and some of them know who I am.”

“That makes you a decent hostage.”

“Yeah. Rather not think about that.”

“Why are you trying to betray your own people?”

“Because I’d rather not see them burn in Hell!” I yell in frustration. “Okay, fine, most of them are manipulative and controlling dicks, little better than their own oppressors. They _torture_ any angel they capture for ‘research purposes,’ but I’m sure there are some sadistic bastards in there who _love_ getting some of their own back. Making other beings suffer the way they’ve suffered. I’d love to shove some of them on a rocket launcher straight into the ninth circle of Hell myself.” _Probably plus a few Fallen, but a girl will take what she can get_ . “I don’t know _where_ my boyfriend is, I don’t know if he’s suffering or not, and I. want. him. back. He’s _my_ family and he’s _my_ person.”

Jev sighs, and then he smiles. Then he starts chuckling to himself softly. “Yeah, I guess I can understand that motivation. We all do crazy things for the ones we love. I’ll make a deal with you then, Carmel. I’ll help you look for your boyfriend, if you try to help me look for my girlfriend. She’s being held by the Nephilim, and while I do have an arrangement with the Black Hand in regards to getting her back—”

“You’re not entirely sure of him.”

“No. I’m not. But we both try to be men of our words.” He sighed, and looked at me. “I know this might place you in danger, but will you try to get in? It’s more likely that your boy was sniffing around there, and I think that’s where you’ll get your answers. I’ll try to protect you the best I can.”

I tilt my head, considering his words. He’d have my back, and that’s something. “Agreed. We’ll shake on it, so we can renegotiate if we need to.”

“Agreed. My word is my bond, Carmel Magdalene Blakely.”

“My word is my bond, Jev,” I reply.

We shake, and he escorts me out of the club.


	5. A Slow Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations, pondering Nora.

The calendar flips over to September, and I spend the week in Enzo’s, serving caffeine to those in dire need of a pick-me-up during back to school shopping. Can’t say I’ve missed that that much. Unfortunately, this time next year—if not earlier—will see me buying footlockers and trunks, as well as the other small things that one might need for living in the dorms. Marcie Millar of course, frequents the cafe frequently. “Yeah, so my parents are divorcing,” she says. “All it means is that _I_ get to use Daddy’s AmEx more often, and Mom’s okay with me doing whatever.”

“I know, but—”

“Honestly, you think _I_ care about the fact that my dad’s dating _her_? I’ve known for _years_. At least he has the decency to keep it quiet.”

“Marcie—”

“Look. I’m _so_ not ready to become stepsisters with _that_ nerd, but _no one’s_ found her yet. It’s been what? Two months? She probably met some psycho and wound up in a ditch somewhere. It’s no secret that she was involved in the shooting at the Delphic.”

My ears perk up at this. Sounds like Nora Grey. There are still some posters of her up at Enzo’s, but they’re half-hidden under fliers for community events, open mic nights, and whatever posters the local bands have managed to put together with Word. She’s pretty, in the hot nerd-girl way. Not all of the posters have color photos, but it’s so easy to imagine her in argyle. If I saw a curly-haired, light-eyed tall-ish and slender brunette wandering around, I would probably recognize Nora. Especially if she was wearing a plaid or argyle sweater-vest.

And I’m guessing that since Jev’s girl’s been _incommunicado_ since roughly the same time Nora Grey went missing, they might be the one and the same. Or because Jev’s girl went missing at about the same time that Luc did, the two might be related. However, as the aphorism goes: correlation does not equal causation. _And “Patch” and Jev are probably the same person._

 _So why the Hell did Jev get involved_ , I ask myself. Coldwater is small enough that it isn't likely to be anyone else but Nora. I want Luc back. He wants some mortal back, for reasons he won’t say. We both know that the other is an ends to a means. We shook _hands_ about the fact that we’d end up using the other to get to a personal goal. Considering what I know of Nephil and Fallen society, I don’t blame him for being reticent about his problems. I just came out and said Luc’s my boyfriend, because it’s a simple motive. And it’s close, even if.... Well, does a kiss on the cheek in dreamspace count as “hey, we’re datemates now?” Looking for a loved one is a simple enough reason, and it paints me as naive and not playing a long game in immortal society. Whereas Jev’s in a position of power and influence among the Fallen. And he’s playing games in Nephil society too. He’s playing for power or something, and admitting he has someone he loves is a liability. Worse if she’s in danger. Which I think she is.

All I know is that I have to keep an eye out for a relatively tall mortal girl a bit younger than I am that the Black Hand has on a short list. She’s auburn verging on brunette, grey-eyed, feisty, and I’m guessing slender with curves in all the right places too. Face of an angel as well, and all that. Little of that is actually _helpful,_ but what can one do? Oh yeah, and her being safe and unharmed means that Jev will continue working with the Black Hand. Which I’m guessing the Black Hand knows. Again, saying that you’ll work for and with someone to protect someone you love can be a risky gamble when playing with immortals.

Okay, the wings look ready for the lunch rush. All the tables are wiped down and set. I blow my bangs out of my face and set my hands on my hips. _Have to check my roots when I get home,_ I think absently. I scan Enzo’s. Marcie Millar and her clique are still sitting at their table. I check my watch. They might be cutting it close, but that _so_ isn’t a problem of mine.

“So, Marcie,” one of the cheer-ettes asks. “Found any boys you have your eye on this year? That one at your birthday bash was hot. Even if he dated Nora.”

“Hm? Patch? Oh, yeah, he was hot, but y’know the type. Total bad boy.”

“Ooo.” The Marc-ette wriggles her eyebrows. “In all the good ways I’m sure.”

Marcie snorts. “Hardly. All talk and swagger, but he was still hung up on Nora. And _not_ interested. Even if he was one of the hottest boys around.”

“How could he not be interested?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I walk behind the counter. Stick-skinny works for some, but for others, it comes at a price, and it sometimes isn’t something that looks great either. Roberta smiles at me as I put my cleaning rags away. “How are you, Maggie?”

“Fine, thanks, Roberta.”

“Those girls giving you a hard time?”

“Nah.”

“You can tell me if they are. Marcie might be a Millar and Daddy’s Princess, but that shouldn’t mean that she can treat everyone in here like trash.”

“She wasn’t giving me a hard time. Just kinda rolling my eyes at the conversation.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Boys and whatnot.”

“You’re a year or two older than they are,” she replies censoriously.

I smile to take the sting out of it. “Yeah. I know. So it’s probably an eyeroll at myself too.”

She chuckles. “You got a special someone in mind?”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urgh. Getting hard to write. And I'm well aware this is fill. Next chapter might be super long and actually get things moving along.
> 
> If I can write it before distracting myself yet again with my new and shiny hyperfixation.


	6. All About the Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Scott and our heroine have another sea-side chat. Some fourth wall tapping and analysis of "why sixteen year old girls?" is included. Something important is seen at the cemetery.
> 
> Due diligence:references to hazing, emotional control via mind tricks (or something similar), kidnapping.

I’m at the beach again, lounging in the warm light before autumn really hits the northeast. It’s Indian summer, and I’ll be damned if I don’t take every advantage of it that I can. Even if it’s not exactly great for my skin or general fashion trend to _get_ some sun, why not? Not like I ever see too much of it anyways, between the city and here. I adjust my head a little bit more on my backpack, and stretch out more on the towel. Jev’s made a good offer—and I don’t think the Fallen will help me find Luc at all. _Fallen. Hm._ There’s a thought. I was talking on the beach not too long ago with someone... what was his name? He was a Nephil—don’t think I asked for his name then. We were talking about Fallen. Patch—who is also Jev, I’m damn sure, and there was someone else... what was the name? Jaxon? Dickon? Was it something vaguely _Game of Thrones-y?_ Richy? Oh, yeah, Rixon.

 _Oh crap, Rixon._ I mutter a curse to myself and scrub my hands over my face. _Rixon._ That was a name Luc had given me just prior to when he went dark. He was saying that Rixon wasn’t someone to be trusted. Less so than Patch. And he was definitely a Fallen to watch. _Wasn’t he—_ I muffle a scream of frustration. _Yeah. I think he was._ His bondsman was a high-ranking Nephil, from what I recall, and he was gunning for a local girl. I know the usual lore about daughters above sixteen and how important they are for Nephil and Fallen in their usual war for control. Honestly. Sixteen, and a (likely) succulent virgin. Tale old as time for no discernable reason as to _why_ that specific age. _I should ask Evelin her theories on the subject. That's likely to be interesting._

Well. That’s not ideal. I should probably figure out who he was gunning for. _Stop distracting and g_ _etting ahead of yourself, Elle._ Okay, I should make an effort to find if Rixon is still in the picture or not. If he’s not, and a Nephil didn’t take him out, I could claim his disappearance as mine. Depending on when he went away. If it was in May—

“Hello,” a male voice says.

I sit up and look around, shading my eyes from the sun with one hand. It’s the Nephil from the other day. “Hello,” I reply.

“Maggie, right?”

“Yeah. What’s up? Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Well. Small town.”

I hum in assent. “C’mon. Might as well sit down.”

“What’re you doing out here?”

“Thinking. Enjoying the sunshine. You?”

“Erm. Hoping I could beg some food.”

I snort. “You think a random chick you met on a beach is a good source?”

“Well... You did buy me food the other day.”

“So I did. Here,” I say, tossing him a bar I fished out of my backpack. “Not always delicious, but it is nutritious.”

“Thanks.” He smiles at me, and his hazel eyes sparkle. He makes himself comfortable where he is, and I readjust my head on my backpack. The gulls cry overhead, and the sun beats down on my closed eyelids. There’s a slight breeze from the sea: I can taste the salt. “I guess school starts soon for you,” he says conversationally.

“It doesn’t. I graduated in the spring. And I’m guessing _you_ don’t go to school either.”

“Yeah. Got my GED.”

“Black Hand doesn’t allow for much schooling for the foot soldiers,” I scoff.

“You’ve met them?”

“Once upon a time. Considering rejoining if only to put a stop to them. Cause is good, but—” I wave a hand. “Too macho, too willing to do mindtricks—and that’s being polite.”

“I don’t see it,” the Nephil says.

“Well,” I pause. “I’d say your name, but I don’t know it.”

“Scott,” he replies.

“Well, Scott, here’s how I see it. There’s rumors or legends that getting out of being a bondsman to a Fallen—or for a Fallen to become human—one would need to kill off one’s daughter. Or have her sacrifice herself. And she needs to be sixteen. Or older. But for Fallen, they have to sacrifice their bondsman's daughter. By that logic, any and all women are precious to both sides. Either side can use them as broodmares or as chips to get out of a bargain. Which is _horribly_ misogynistic.”

“I don’t think Nephil can reproduce well among themselves.”

I chuckled. “I forgot that. Well, I think you’re ex-Hand. Ever see any chicks in _that_ army?”

“No. Never. Just us guys.” Scott barked a laugh. “Dunno if it would have made a difference in how we go about things. If the chicks were anything like Nora, I think it would have. She’s not really fond of the ‘forcibly conscript teenagers’ thing. Then again, her boyfriend was... trouble. And she was in love with him.”

I raise an eyebrow at the pause, but don’t make much of it. “Don’t blame her. _I_ was never a part of it, but my boyfriend was.” I suppress a shudder. “He liked the party line a lot. And was more than willing to aggressively make others toe it as well as he did.”

“But you weren’t ever trained by them, were you? I never heard of a chick being involved.”

“Nah, I wasn’t. And they’ve liked to keep the cells isolated from each other—might make it harder to get everyone together when the big thing goes down. Eh. I wasn’t allowed into the boys club, but every now and then...” I exhale sharply and look up at the sky. “Ex would come back from some training, and he’d maybe try to practice some of his new mindtricks on me. I told my parents about it, but they let it slide. ‘Practice for if a Fallen tries to get inside your head,’ they’d all say.” I snorted. “Like L—” I catch myself. “Like Jack would ever do that.”

“Guess you’ve got as much reason to hate them as I do,” Scott says, looking over the sea. “Training was rough, yeah. And so was joining. Made me wonder how hard they’d haze—no surprise, it’s harder than they haze you in wrestling. Easier to go balls to the wall when you’re immortal and healing time is almost nothing. Don’t worry about hurting the new little recruits who haven’t figured out who they are yet.”

“Bunch of fuckers.” I spit.

Scott nods in assent. “And they captured your boyfriend. And they’ve got Nora.”

“You think they got your Nora?” I turn to look at him.

“Yeah. Dunno who else it could be. Don’t think the Fallen are organized enough to go after her.

 _Don’t be so sure,_ I think. But then again, I don’t think Jev would hold well with kidnapping. Not after what I heard last night, when he was talking about his girlfriend. “I’m already going to try to bust people out of the Black Hand’s clutches,” I say wryly. “What’s one more?”

* * *

I end up driving home from work the sixth. I took a late shift—it’s amazing how Enzo’s is almost always open, but cafe food is cafe food. My little apartment is out beyond the cemetery, which makes driving home in the evenings interesting sometimes. Especially given the fog that’ll roll in from the sea. I see a flicker in the fog ahead of me, moving at a fast pace. I tap the brakes, unsure of what I’m seeing. _Is it? It can’t be, can it? Crap, that’s someone’s dog!_ I stop the car. _Holy—_

It is someone’s dog. I hope. I’m pretty sure it’s not a wolf—they’ve been gone from Maine for years. It’s too big to be a coyote, and I’d be surprised to see one this far east. It’s big and black—and heading into the cemetery. If anything, it should be a church grim. I repress the urge to reflexively cross myself. _Probably isn’t one._ And... I don’t _think_ it’s a mind trick, but I can’t be sure, and—

I park the car and leap out before I finish processing the thought, my hand curled around my canister of pepper spray. Pretty sure Fallen will reflexively blink if something goes to their face, even if they can’t feel pain. I run after the dog, as it clears the cemetery fence in one leap. Grumbling under my breath, I reach the fence and start hoisting myself over. I wobble at the top, and voices drift to me out of the fog. “We’ll dump her here.”

“Ya sure, boss?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Now, let’s get on with it. The Black Hand feels that the bargain he set with _him_ is complete.” The first voice is irate, syllables clipped. _Oh sweet mother Mary._ I recognize one of the voices. I know those clipped syllables as well as the back of my hand. I freeze atop the fence. “Aaron, you’ve got the girl?” my father asks.

“Course, sir. You think I can’t manage a slip of a thing like her?” a third voice replies.

“Well, you didn’t manage my daughter well.”

“Your daughter wasn’t drugged up to the gills. Don’t see why _you_ had to come along, sir.”

“And leave one of you to dose the Black Hand’s daughter? We want her to come out of this naturally and with few side-effects.”

I drop down from the fence as quietly as I can, and start working my way to where the voices are. I’ve lost sight of the dog.

“Who cares,” says the second voice. “She’s jus’ some ho who shacked up with a _Fallen._ ” He spits, as if to clear his mouth.

There’s a sharp smack, flesh on flesh. Aaron’s voice is low and furious. It carries oddly in the fog, and goosebumps rise on my arms. “You’ll have some respect when talking about the Black Hand’s daughter. Don’t test me.”

“Boys.” My father’s voice is even colder than before. “That’ll do. Aaron, dump the girl and undo the bonds. Drew, keep watch. One never knows how far to trust a Fallen.”

I sneak closer and closer. _The Black Hand’s daughter. "I do have an arrangement with the Black Hand in regards to getting her back."_ Jev. _"And they’ve got Nora."_ Scott. Pretty sure it isn’t Marcie, and the only girl I know who the Nephilim have captured is— _Oh sweet suffering Jesus and blessed Mother Mary. Let me please be wrong about this._ I creep closer. It appears that the meathead is bored out of his skull as he stares at the fog. Still doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be cautious. I watch each footfall. I’m surprised by the amount of leaf litter in the cemetery. Can’t be too careful. An odd reflection of light in the fog glints off of something by my feet. I pause, keeping low, keeping still. The light gleams along something about as long as my forearm, and inky black. I hiss in a breath between my teeth. It’s a feather. And I bet it came from an angel.

I ease closer to where my father and Aaron are busying themselves. They’re illuminated by some klieg lights, and Aaron’s looking bored already. Shivers run up and down my spine, but I don’t look away. His handsome face is drawn up in disdain as he looks at the bundle by his feet. Ropes idly dangle from his hand. My father kneels next to the bundle. It’s a girl, all collapsed on herself in an odd boneless way. There’s a glint off of something metal, and my father takes one of the girl’s arms. He slides a syringe into the crook of her elbow, puts the plunger down. He removes the syringe, and chafes the girl’s arms. Her head lolls towards me. She’s got a glory of reddish brown hair, and the profile of her nose looks like it could be familiar. She’s scrawny and a bit grubby, but that’s all I can tell from here.

My father stands. “Let’s go. I’ve tarried as long as I can. My shift resumes in fifteen minutes, and I need to be back to the hospital by then.”

“Alright, we’ll go,” Aaron says. “Andrew!”

“Somethin’s out there, man,” Andrew says. “Heard it snuffling around.”

“Probably a rodent. Nothing to make us worry. C’mon dude, let’s go.”

They walk off. I creep closer to the girl. She’s still, but she’s breathing. I can’t tell much because the light’s going, but I tilt her face to me. _Nora Grey._ _Crap, I need to call—_ A car engine starts somewhere. _My car!_ I can’t let the Black Hand’s men see it. I can't let my _father_ or my ex see it. I can’t let them know that someone really _was_ watching. I lurch to my feet and start running in the vague direction I came. The only sounds I hear are leaves crunching under my feet and my harsh breaths. 

“Hey! Hey! Where ya going?” An older man emerged from the fog. No prickles on the back of my neck. Human. I almost bowl him over, correct myself in time, and keep moving.

“Hey! Hey you! What’re ya doin’ out here? Doncha know that this is closed after dark? Hey you!”

I don’t stop. I reach the fence, clamber over it, and keep racing to my car. There are no headlights or taillights nearby, so I count that as good. No sound of an engine either. I skid into the driver’s side, open the door, and tumble into the vehicle. My hands are shaking as I get out my phone and text Jev. **I think NG’s back. BH should’ve contacted U. she’s at the cemetery.**


	7. Adjusting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see some fall-out from Nora's reappearance, and how Scott managed to get his car.

It’s all over the morning news the next day. Emilio has the radio on full blast, nodding sagely to each pronouncement the newscasters and various commentators make as to the state of Today’s Youth. How did a straight A, straight edge bookworm like Nora (according to various reports from people who’ve called in) end up not only (hypothetically) involved in a shoot-out, go missing for three months, and then reappear in a cemetery? Must have been a closet Satanist. Or she fell in with a rough crowd. Or something. She’s probably a closet Satanist—at least that’s what the overly chirpy lady on the news channel says.

“Ay, _dios mio_ ,” Emilio says, scratching the back of his neck as he supervises the frying pan. “I didn’t think that Nora was that type when she worked here. So sweet, so nice.”

Roberta snorts. “When she wasn’t hung up on a boy.”

“Or in a tiff with Marcy,” one of the other waitstaff says. “Not that I blame her, from what I’ve heard.”

“Or just interactions with Marcy herself,” I add.

“But to have one of our girls go missing!” Emilio shakes his head. “That doesn’t happen here.”

I wish I could be as optimistic as he is, but I don’t think I can be. I mean, I’ve been to the local goth club. If there’s that in this small town, then there’s probably something else going on (likely both in the upper and downer flavor). I’m well aware that there are two trigger-happy sooper sekrit boys’ clubs who hate each other in town and are aiming for all-out war in the next month or so. It’s likely to make someone call Coldwater a hellmouth, if I’m not mistaken. Which might be ironic, but then, I might have taken some of the English Lit a bit too seriously. After all, the center of Hell is a frozen lake, per Dante.

* * *

Work in the bistro is—surprise, surprise—different than the surveillance work I’ve been doing for Jev. It took a few days of innocuous lurking by the Serpentine (which Jev told me about) to get a lock on who to tail. I might have a Spidey-sense for Heaven’s cast-offs, but using that as some form of tracking device is a skill I sorely lack. Fortunately, my guy—high enough to be allowed out into the world—has not managed to hone his Spidey-sense of "someone's watching me" yet. I think. There are problems that come with being a 5’10” (okay, more like 5’9.5”) chick with berry-bright hair in a small town. Especially when you want to follow your local supernatural mafioso to his sooper sekrit warehouse hideout HQ in the largely abandoned industrial district. If this was back home, there’d be a few brave souls seeking cheap rent to follow their creative projects. Bright hair wouldn’t be that uncommon, and the locals would sneer at the bright and shiny bohemian yuppies.

But no, this is Coldwater. The locals in the warehouse district are those who can’t live anywhere else, and those who need a sooper sekrit hideout that the HOA can’t sniff around in. Or a place where no one really cares about flagrant code violations. Like seriously? It’s probably a stupid idea to bunk 20 people together in one room and how many toilets and showers does this building have? I’m guessing the one. _So_ not how dorms are built. Or I’m guessing barracks, because this is what this is.

I’m quietly sitting in my Rabbit, snapping photos of the exterior. I’m happy Jev was at least willing to splurge the teensiest amount on an IR camera. I’ve got some good shots on heat signatures in this place. Good for the Fallen to know who they’re going to be fighting against. Which likely won’t help them once Father starts using the tech he’s been working on. Tech which I _haven’t seen_ yet, but then again, not surprised. Why risk leaking highly profitable proprietary technology when you can hide it from curious lookie-loos?

 _Oh Luc, I believe you, but I need proof if I’m going to actually get these bastards._ Of course, none of that will actually help me get him back, of course. But it could bring me closer to doing so. I hope. If it all falls through... At least Adam will have a hard time.

My cell buzzes, and I jump. Incoming phone call. Unknown number, but local to Coldwater. I curse, and stash my camera away. I turn the Rabbit on, and fumble for my phone. I hit the button, and stick it to my ear. “Hello, this is the phone of Maggie Lucien, who am I speaking to?”

“Hey Maggie. It’s Scott.”

 _Oh, right. I did give him my phone number not too long ago. Must’ve slipped my mind._ “Hey, Scott.”

“So I was wondering if you have any plans for this evening.”

I snort as I put my car in gear and turn onto the main industrial drag. “No, can’t say I did.” _Besides staking out the Black Hand for a fallen angel and hoping I don’t blow my cover? Schedule’s wide open._ “Well. If you’d like some fun, I’ve got somethin’ to get your engines goin’.”

“Oh really?” I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah. Drag race off of 32nd. Cool cars. Loud guitars. Pink slips.”

“I thought you wanted to keep your head down.” I shift my phone so I’m cradling it on my shoulder as I shift gears.

“Well— Okay, yeah. I do. But sitting in a cave all the time’s boring. And everyone’s looking to blow off some steam after the first week of school.”

“Yeah, and?”

“It’s gonna be one of the last events of the summer.”

“Still not convincing me.” I turn into Coldwater, heading past the cemetery.

“Pretty sure the Black Hand’s gonna be recruiting there.”

“See, that just tells me you shouldn’t even go.”

“I know that this guy is racing, and he’s got a sweet ride. Besides, I need some arm candy and a driver.”

“Driver yes, arm candy no.”

“I’ll see you at nine thirty. Remember, 32nd and Wharf.” He hangs up. I pull into my drive and resist the urge to bang my head against the steering wheel. My phone buzzes again. _Better not be Scott, better not be Scott_. It’s a text.

J: **U might want to come to this**

 **What?** I reply.

 **Drag race tonite. 32nd and Wharf. 2130.** Jev texts back.

**SP just said. BH will likely use it as an event.**

**So will we. More info 4 us? Ur call, but a good op  
**

Well, that’s just grand. I get to go to a (likely) illegal street race. Why did I come here again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made some general formatting edits to the whole thing.
> 
> 3-4 more chapters, and then I've reached the end of my plot notes. No idea on exact chapters.


	8. The Race Pt I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prep for a drag race, conversations happen, and there's social commentary to introduce things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, there's no good reason why there's a drag race here. Except Scott needed the '71 Charger.  
> Also, I know NOTHING about vehicles aside from what I can find on a simple internet search.

I’m still not sure why there is a drag race in Coldwater, Maine of all places. Shouldn’t this be in an area with kids who have rich daddies, money to burn, and a desire to live fast and recklessly? The only person I can think of here is Marcie Millar, and she only matches two of the three needed traits.

But oh, wait. There’s a local population of likely physically stuck in their late teens immortals (excepting the Fallen or other angels or even some Nephilim, who, for whatever reason, can’t pass as being teenagers). Most of said immortals are male. Some of them may even continue to play at being in their late teens. And they are blessed with being extremely hard to kill. Why not test out immortality by seeing if breaking physics is possible in a quickly accelerating and rapidly moving metal and plastic cage on wheels? The accidents are horrible enough that when they happen, and someone walks away, it’s good proof of immortality. Or extreme luck, but it’s Coldwater. Who am I kidding? It’s likely immortality.

So a crowd of male immortals aping at being teenagers means that my appearance as arm candy is unfortunately necessary. And since Scott’s on the DL, it’d probably be smarter to go as one of Jev’s associates. Which means something similar to what I wore to Bloody Marys. With bonus fishnets. But nothing too edgy, because that’s what Carmel Blakely would wear, and Maggie Lucien is a bit of a hipster. But nothing too preppy, because I’ll be socializing with Scott as well. So I need to look borderline like a girl who comes from a family where it’s normal to drink beer and watch NASCAR on the weekends. But edgy. The classy yet vampy part is why I’ve shown up with Jev, but the NASCAR-punk bit is going to allow me to talk to Scott. And pick up intel for the Fallen angels about various Nephilim who might be showing their faces, while not letting on that I’m working for the Fallen myself.

I hate fashion. I check my ensemble in the bathroom mirror, giving my hair a fluff, and checking to make sure the glamour I’ve decided on is strong enough. I’ve only got it on my hair and not on my entire outfit, which is good. As long as I remember that I’m some bobbed peroxide blonde with dark roots, I’m happy. My phone buzzes, and I pull it out to check. New text from Jev. **Here to pick u up**

 **Cool** , I text back. **Still good with the plan?**

**As long as u can pull it off**

I sigh. A drama-free and relaxing evening this will not be. Thus the need to look like some edgy white-trash chick, but still pretty straight-edge. Gotta love espionage. Layers upon layers of mind games and deceit. Especially with immortals who can read minds and also do various flavors of mind trickery. Who are famous for doing such. I love Coldwater. Not.

I step into my stupidly high shoes, and go to meet Jev. He’s parked out front in a black Chevy Tahoe. And I thought I was the one who had to regularly make stupid sartorial choices, I think grimly. One’d think that the scary rebellious cradle-robbing and devilishly handsome fallen angel would go for a motorcycle. Or, y’know. A Ford Mustang or a Chevy Camaro if he wants to stay on brand for ‘Merican Steel. But I heard from Marcie at Enzo’s one day that Jev (when he still wanted to be called Patch) drove a Jeep Commander. Which, hey, cargo and durability. But a Tahoe?

(At least it’s not a Suburban, which is a Soccer-Dad car if I’ve pegged one. Or a car for not-so-covert but definitely-ominous government flunkies. Honestly. A Wrangler would make more sense. But it is, again, Coldwater, Maine. Not anything anywhere close to the Rockies or west of them.)

And Jev’s driving the Tahoe to illicit street races. So I slide into the passenger seat, clip my seatbelt on, and raise an eyebrow. “Really?” I ask.

“It’s low-key,” he replies defensively.

“Not at a drag-race. If you wanted a sport-ute with an emphasis on sport, I’d pick a Beemer or a Porsche.”

“That costs too much money.”

“And you pick a fancy Chevy?”

“It snows and there’s too much salt here,” he replies, looking out the windshield. “It’s not quite cost-effective from a maintenance perspective to have either of those.”

“Prolly also helpful in reassuring your girl’s mom that you are a stable match for her straight-laced daughter.”

He barks a laugh. “Stable yes, but suitable? No. I’ve put her into too much danger already.”

“Nora seems like she’s coping. She was in with Vee the other day.” I wince after the words leave my mouth. I heard what Jev requested. _Nora’ll forget everything, so don’t try to bring it up with her_ , he had said when I told him she was back. I shouldn’t have mentioned her name to him; it seemed to cut him up. 

“That’s good,” Jev says, and there’s so much naked hope in his voice.Guy had it bad for her, I had to admit that. I wanna tell him that he should go for it. However, I wasn’t sure keeping her in the dark was a great idea. Nora was Hank-flipping-Millar’s daughter. If I had figured it out, others had too. And if others had, they’d use her. She was just a fragile human, and when the heavies started throwing punches at each other, she’d get hurt. War’s coming in about a month. New moon’s tonight. Who knows how much time he’ll have to tell her that he loves her? It’s one of the things I regret about Luc. Beyond that, Nora was a smart cookie from all reports. She’d figure out pretty soon that the pieces weren’t aligning. How does one explain missing several months of their lives without wondering why? A mystery of psychology that I was so not going to untangle.

We’re silent for a while as the streets unreel under the headlights. Jev coughs. “So. How’d a city girl like you with decent taste in clothes but not in vehicles end up making guesses about what I should be driving?”

“I thought my clothes were nondescript!” I protest.

“They might look plain, but they fit too well.”

“Jack. My...well. He likes anything that can go fast. So I know about cars. Kinda. How’d a male fallen angel like you end up knowing a lot about fashion?”

“You spend some time here long enough, you pick up a few things. Or you get friends with lots of connections. Spending a few weeks trying to pretend I was actually interested in dating Marcie Millar helped.”

I chortled. “I bet it did.”

He barely restrains an eye roll. “If it wasn’t plotting her birthday bash, it was revising her wardrobe for the summer. Some colors were in, some were barely in, others were not, and then you had to judge how something fit and if something fit, how it was cut, and and and. I was lucky to only be dragged out clothes shopping the few times.”

“Oh no, the Peril of the Boyfriend: shopping with his girl for clothes and accessories.”

“Some accessories I wouldn’t mind shopping with my girlfriend for.”

“Of course not.”

“You ever drag ..Jack.. clothes shopping with you?”

“Not really. He only dragged me out shopping a couple times. Once because I was trying to not look fifteen and once to help me get a start on overhauling my wardrobe.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Probably stupid in hindsight, but I was making stupid decisions with my best friend in the first case. We were plotting how to spend a night on the town, and we didn’t quite know how to do that and pull it off safely. The second case was because I didn’t know what to look for in terms of quality and price and was just lacking in know-how. My parents wouldn’t really buy me the clothes, so I had to learn how. It's easy enough to tell synthetic leather sometimes, but fabrics and garment construction and what brands to buy or where to look were things I didn't really know.”

“Huh. Well, I guess he’d know. Being, well. Fallen.”

“When you buy an item of clothing you like, you want it to last,” I reply.

“True. It’s so hard to find good, cheap wool anymore. And no one really wants to repair a steel breastplate from the 1500s.” Jev turns onto 32nd. “So. I just drop you off here?”

“Or just discreetly. I’m assuming people know you’re an angel.”

“And you want to hang with Nephilim. Unless you want to play up the double agent role?”

“Wouldn’t explain why I’m arm candy.”

He sighs. “Fine. Have it your way. You still have your pepper spray?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember how to contact me in an emergency?”

“Grab Jack’s necklace and say there’s no place like home three times? You forget I have your cell phone too.” I reach to the latch and get ready to open the door.

He flicks on the turn signal and turns to look at me.“Best of luck out there, Maggie.”

I smile grimly. “You too, Jev.”

* * *

Scott’s easy enough to find. Just look for the tall guy with dimples, diamond studs, a baby goatee, and less common sense than one would think. Honestly, the tall-and-dimpled are the best identifiers for him in this crowd. I have never seen more varied attempts at “facial hair makes me look cool” in my life. I have to bite my tongue at the mustachioed ones. Hasn’t anyone learned yet that a hairy caterpillar on the upper lip does not automatically make one attractive? Especially those in the late-teens, early-twenties crowd?

Scott’s admiring some of the muscle cars, an abstracted look on his face. I sashay over to him, and latch on to his arm. “Scottie!” I say, at a pitch that is much higher than my own. “I was looking for you!”

“Brother finally drop you off?” he asks, because that’s my cover for tonight.

“Yeah. He almost wanted to persuade me not to go. So responsible!” I pout and bat my eyelashes (enhanced with mascara-clumped falsies for Dramatic Effect). But I perk up and turn to the car.

“What do we have here?” I ask.

“1980s Chevy Camaro,” the kid says proudly.

“Better be an IROC-Z,” I mutter.

“Which year?” Scott asks.

“Uh, I dunno man. 1982? It’s one of the first ones. Runs like a dream, and I’ve tricked ‘er up too.”

Scott seems interested, but I drag him away. “Don’t bet on it,” I whisper at him. “You don’t know the upgrades, and it’s not going to be as light as a later model.”

“Where the f—”

“Jack. Likes his cars. C’mon. We should see if there are any Fords.”

“I’m more of a Dodge guy.” We wander, twisting and turning through the throngs of people as we check out their various cars. I drag him to the Fords, he drags me to anything else.

“Got an eye on anything?”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his chin. “A ‘71 Charger. You remember it, right?”

“Yeah. How’re you going to get it?”

“Racing.”

“With what? Do you even have a vehicle?”

Scott only grins.

There’s a call of “Drivers to cars!” over a megaphone that has likely had better days. I’m ushered to the girlfriends’ section, and Scott goes over to where the other drivers have conglomerated. I look anxiously around, hoping that nothing will go wrong, and that Scott made a good decision. I don’t imagine that any of the guys here will happily have someone else drive their baby.

The drivers get into their cars, and engines start revving. The MC walks to the front of the line of cars, megaphone held loosely in his hand. “Alright, alright! Welcome, Gearheads, to the Coldwater Grand Prix! As usual, we are sponsored by the Underwoods and racing for pink slips! This isn’t the demolition derby _you’ll_ see at Delphic! Boys and girls, my name is Dante, and I’m your host tonight! If I may have my flag—thank you honey.” A simpering brunette delivers the checkered flag to the dark-haired MC. He leans down—way down, even though she’s in stilettos to kiss her cheek. “Drivers ready?”

Horns beep in response, and there’s an outcry from the crowd. Dante lifts the flag. It sways there in the breeze. The breath catches in my throat. _Scott, I hope you know what you are doing._ A second, two. There’s feedback from the megaphone. The flag drops.

“Go!”

I’m left smelling exhaust fumes and seeing taillights the color of the devil’s eyes.


	9. The Race Pt II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Socializing at a race, Scott gets his car, and the Nephilim are /doing/ something. Also, more telepathy, appearing as -italicized thought- as earlier.
> 
> Due diligence: Bad memories associated with rings with things implied but left unsaid; likely horrible Latin; sketchy marketing to get into the Black Hand's Army.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Manus Nigra" is a very very rough translation of "Black Hand" into Latin. It's based off of "Porta Nigra," or "Black Gate," a Roman gate in the German city of Trier.

What _does_ one do at an illegal street race while the boyfriends are off driving around? Socialize. So I plaster on a megawatt smile to match the peroxide blonde glamour and coo and chirp with the other girls as we keep an ear out for any race updates. It should be over shortly. Which means I need to maximize my time. I make my way over to the MC’s girlfriend. She’s stick-skinny with surprisingly glossy long hair. Her eyes are a piercing blue that reminds me of a Siberian husky, and she’s got enough foundation and make up on her to paint a church. Even in my baby bat days, I wasn’t that bad. _I hope._ Even in stilettos, she’s shorter than I’d be without heels. Somehow it makes the legs beneath her micro miniskirt look even longer.

“Hi! Your boyfriend racing tonight?” I ask, even though I know damn well he’s not.

“No. Not tonight. He’s the MC, but he found someone to drive for him!”

“That’s really lucky! And he must be so brave, letting someone else drive his car tonight!”

She giggles. “That’s my Dante! He’s brave. You have a boyfriend here?”

“Yeah. Scott. He’s such a sweetheart. My brother didn’t want me to come, but he let me do it anyways. As long as my parents don’t know!” I giggle.

“I know, right? They have so many rules, it’s silly!” She hops on her feet. “D’you know what time it is? The boys should be hitting the home stretch soon.”

“Quarter past, why?”

“Dante’s gonna announce the winners! And the winners will get their choice of vehicles!”

“Sweet! I’m sorry if it sounds stupid, but it’s my first time here, and I’m only here because Scott is—which winners get the cars?”

“I know how it is. I didn’t start coming here until I started dating Tyler, but he’s a dick, so we broke up. I’m so happy I bumped into Aaron and he introduced me to Dante! Anyways, the top three of a race get to pick their favorite cars. Some people go home without cars, but they can sign up as drivers if someone has a fleet. Which is what Aaron had, and Tyler was a driver for him at one point.”

“Cool!” _Scott, if you want that Charger, you’d better win._

“C’mon, let’s get to the line! I want to have a good look at them as they come over the line!”

I follow the girl to the front of the crowd, right up to the flag. Some techie’s got a laser set up across the street, and I think it’s linked to a clock. Kinda like in cross-country races (when Evelin would drag me off to those. She had a crush on a runner at one point). Dante’s standing across from the clock, megaphone loosely in hand. He’s got a pirate’s smirk on his face and he’s chatting with another tall guy. The other guy’s hair glints an off-bronze in the glare of the lights, and an ice cube runs down my spine. Aaron Adamson. My ex.

 _It’s alright, Elle. It’s alright._ I give an extra boost to the glamour over my hair just in case. _Peroxide blonde with dark roots, peroxide blonde with dark roots. You like NASCAR and fashion. Get with it. It’s all just another time when I’m helping Ev run lines. You can do this. You can get into the act._ I plaster on another megawatt smile and empty all other thoughts from my head beyond the fact that I am an obviously fake blonde who likes fast cars.

My new acquaintance drags me to just in front of the box. She drops my hand, and starts waving at Dante. He turns, and waves back. Well, can’t say I blame the girl for going out with him. I’d go out with him too: tall and dark, just the way I like things. He’s handsome in the way that Jev is, like a pirate. But something about Dante makes me feel like spiders are crawling over me. His regard is nice and normal, but there’s a weight to it that feels off. It could be because he’s with Aaron, but I don’t think that’s quite it. It feels...almost preternatural, that regard. And he’s got _presence_.

He’s Nephilim. He has to be. I know what Fallen feel like, and they’re somehow heavier than the average Nephil. To me, Fallen feel like lighting will strike somewhere close, just because something in me sits up and pays attention. (At least, I’ve felt that way for the past few years.) Nephilim feel like a storm coming over the horizon. There’s a weight to them, not an uncomfortable, inescapable zing. But Dante has a different presence. It’s closest to a sudden pressure drop, I think. Like what I imagine the air feels like shortly before a tornado. And he’s a cold presence. It’s almost like...

I check their hands. Aaron...yeah. Not surprised. Aaron’s got a fancy black ring. I wish I didn’t know what it feels like. Dante’s got a matching one on his hand. It’s thick and black, and it looks like a signet ring. To a certain extent, it is. If one likes having a clenched fist as a raised sigil. And if you turn the ring just right sometimes, there’s a blue sheen that runs across it, like an oil slick. It always reminded me of the heart of a candle, or maybe a bunsen burner, but with none of the warmth of actual flame.

Yeah. I need to find out what happened to Luc, because what he was searching for has clearly spread.

There’s the blare of a horn, and I’m jolted out of my thoughts. I hear the engines a few milliseconds later as cars start blazing towards the finish line. Dante calls out the times as the techie notes them down. “Alright, alright,” Dante says through the megaphone as the last car crosses. “That’s all of them! Another fast evening on the Black Loop! Our top times are! Aaron, if you would?”

Aaron nods, and takes the megaphone from Dante. “9:42.33, silver 2004 Mustang driven by Scott. 9:45.40, Jason in his red ‘98 Camaro. 9:48.23, blue ‘68 Thunderbird driven by Trent.”

“Thank you, Aaron. Now, as we all know, we are racing for pink slips tonight! So, drivers, get out of your cars!” They exit the vehicles and stand by their cars. “Scott, Jason, and Trent! Which cars do you want?”

Even from here, I can see Scott smile as his eyes light on an older Charger. I’d guess it’s from the 70s. He walks up to the driver and holds out his hand. His opponent grumbles as he hands over the keys and the slip. One of the officiants looms, and the driver lets off grumbling. Jason and Trent have already chosen their vehicles.

“Everybody make their choice? Everybody happy? Alright! Next race is in ten minutes, and we’re doing a quarter mile! _Manus Nigra_!”

“ _Manus Nigra_!” several male voices chorus.

A shiver runs down my spine for yet another time this evening. Can’t do anything about it though, so I start heading towards Scott. Might as well mingle. “Sweet car,” I say as I approach him.

“Yeah. I wanna see what’s under her hood, but I think she’s a beaut!”

“Gonna race again?”

“Nah. I don’t think so. I got what I wanted, and Dante only wanted a drive for this race. He likes commentating on the distance.”

“Only because I’m better at the shorter races,” Dante says laconically as he saunters up. I resist the urge to make a snarky comment.“Nicely done, bro. You do this before?”

Scott shrugs. “Wasn’t a habit.”

“Well, you should join us. Do it more often. Hell, doesn’t matter if you’re a local or not, we’ve got some chapters all over.”

“Is it like a frat?” I ask, blinking my eyes wide.

“Guess you could say that,” Dante replies. “What are your letters?”

“Er. Well, we just have a slogan. _Manus Nigra_ , right Aaron?”

“Yeah,” Aaron replies as he slides up to us. “Hey bro, do we have any other newbies here? Besides this guy?” He jerks his chin at Scott, and completely ignores me.

“I think Cat’s looking for some,” Dante replies. “Anyways, any thoughts on what I said to you earlier, Scott? It’s a good opportunity. Heck, one of our alums even does scholarships for college.”

“I mean, not really.”

“We’ve always got openings.”

— _yeah. Especially for high schoolers. Mr Underwood’s daughter needs some eyes on her. One assassination attempt already_ — I resist the urge to wince. I don’t think Aaron intended to broadcast that loudly, but he did. And I’m still attuned to him. Blast. Well, that tells me something new. As I recall, Barnabus Underwood goes by Mr. Millar in this day and age. Which means that _either_ someone was gunning for Marcie at one point in time, or... Well. It's probably his not-so-secret love child. I think. Surviving an attempted shooting at an amusement park isn't an assassination.

"Nah, man. Not really interested. Kinda trying to keep it straight-edge, y'know?" Scott replies to Dante.

"Won't hassle you if you don't want to be, man. Just wanted to let you know we see some real potential in you." Dante throws his hands up and shrugs. "We've got class like that, just look at Aaron."

Which, to be fair, is a good tactic. Aaron's wearing chinos and loafers, but he's not wearing a collared shirt. His watch is chunky enough to be expensive (which I know it is), and his hair is tousled enough to be on a lacrosse boy. He's just rough enough around the edges to make any girl horny, but respectable enough to make her parents not long for weaponry. It's a potent combo, and it suckered me in once. It's also good marketing for the boy's club doing illegal street races they've got going here.

- _They've got on rings_ \- I think at Scott, flashing images of the rings and a black glove to go with.

- _I saw. Need_ out-

_-Membership fees. Aaron looks expensive. And you promised me a treat if you won-_

"I don't think I can afford the membership fees," Scott protests. "And besides, I promised I'd take Meg here out for a treat, right Meg?" He loops an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in.

I look up at him with a dopey grin. "That 'cha did!" I chirp. "I'm so happy you won, Scott! Can we go for a spin in your new ride?"

"As long as your brother doesn't mind."

"He won't."

"Well, that settles it." He waves at Dante and Aaron. "I'll see ya around."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is it. Until I get a writing bug or go back to the source material to check on my timelines and how Elle would navigate around.


End file.
